Unreasonable Doubt II: A Pocketful of Koreans

Let us call the defendant "Mr. Pak." Mr. Pak was in his early thirties, tall, wearing a sharp-looking gray suit, no socks and running shoes. He and his female interpreter wedged into the witness box to testify. Mr. Pak's attorney was a middle-aged Korean with dark glasses who spoke heavily-accented English; not bad English but he often groped for words like a sleepy man fumbling for the alarm clock.

(I should note here that the city attorney was also of Korean heritage and spoke excellent English. Clearly the City of Los Angeles had determined they would not be out-Koreaned by anyone.)

Next to the witness stand was a bulletin board with a schematic of the apartment where the incident had taken place. The judge handed the defendant a laser pointer. The defendant fiddled around, at one instance turning it toward his face

Here the defense attorney dropped the ball.

He warned the defendant in English not to point the laser at his eyes. The defendant immediately flipped the pointer around and got the beam aimed at the schematic. (I'd like to say I noticed at the time, but one of the other jurors bagged that golden moment.)

So testimony began. Here the usual translating process was reversed. The defendant would hold forth in Korean while the interpreter in her high-pitched voice would relate events. 

 Mr. Pak came across as confident, even arrogant at times, but his thumbs twisted and mashed against each other like sumo opponents while his right foot tapped out a steady pneumatic cadence.

After I heard his testimony, I knew why he was nervous.

According to Mr. Pak he was beset by woes. His wife's brain had become soft as a rotten peach from too much cocaine. Mr. Pak wasn't above the occasional toot. But cocaine sometimes made him throw up and he'd go to bed chastened. However his nut wife would stay up all night snorting plate loads of blow and making her strange ululating sounds.

 One night she burst from the apartment, sprinting down the hall wailing like a high priest of Dagon in an H.P. Lovecraft tale. Poor Mr. Pak was forced to pursue and haul her back to their unit by her pony tail. He then flung her on the bed. This had the ring of admitting you pilfered copy paper from work to deflect charges of stealing several Xerox machines.

To get all that information on the record took most of an afternoon as there were objections, frequent side bars and at least two "strike that from the record." The judge was a business-like woman with long straight hair and a short fuse for awkward lines of questioning and any tangents that slowed down the process. She dogged both counsels to keep things moving. You got the impression the judge had rented out Department 46 for a wedding reception and needed all parties out by a certain time so she could string bunting and set up folding chairs.

On cross examination, the city attorney set out to ventilate Mr. Pak's story. But he was cagey and hid behind the translator like a running back shadowing a huge tackle.

"I do not understand that word."

"Could you repeat your question please?"

"I am not sure. Could you say that once more?"

"I do not know the word 'bruise.'"

I stopped taking notes and started doodling arrows with thick lines and shading.

At great length, the city attorney attempted to prove Mr. Pak was aware of—and had violated—a restraining order that instructed him to avoid his apartment.  But via the translator he was primed for that line of inquiry.

"The police gave me a paper. I could not read it. So I put it in my pocket."

"Why should  I tell my lawyer about a paper when I don't know what it is?"

"I don't read English very well."

(Unless there's a turkey club sandwich somewhere in the sentence.)

That night I dreamed I was talking to my wife through a Korean translator.

And we still weren't finished.

Tomorrow: Pak Up Your Worries

Image: zazzle.com & NewYork Magazine